


A Bit o' Posh

by PurpleFluffyCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Kink/Cliche Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The winter of 1940 was a particularly harsh one. When a young Horace Slughorn is lost in a blizzard, the Hog's Head is the only place he can turn...</p>
<p>
  <i>Not entirely unattractive, too. He tried to silence the treacherous part of his brain yet again. Really, it wouldn't do; the very thought of relations with such a common specimen was entirely below the salt. How could he even...? Yes, terrible it was; quite terrible. Entirely beyond belief. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>- Yet perhaps that was what made it so very compelling.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit o' Posh

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for daily_deviant's April 'bad porn month', where pieces were inspired by an amusing collection of hackneyed tropes. In this case, the prompts were 'Rough-and-tumble, working-class guy/girl convinces stuck-up, snobby rich guy/girl to get a little dirty' and also "We must get you out of these wet clothes..." I had great fun with these clichés!

It was snowing sideways. Icicles hung like poised daggers on the eves of every house in Hogsmeade, and the snow drifts obscured pavement and kerb, signpost and doorstep in a relentless blanket of white. It shifted and grew as the wind brought yet more freezing little spots thick and fast, seeping into robes and stinging faces, numbing hands and blinding eyes. Luckily for most witches and wizards, though, they were safely abed. Past midnight it was, but also - being the thick of winter - a long time before dawn.  
  
Through that harsh scene, however, trudged a lonesome figure. Let down by the Knight bus in the wrong place for Hogwarts, and too woozy to apparate, his little legs were making very heavy weather of the knee-deep snow, and the onslaught of wind seemed to push him three steps backward for every step he took. It was freezing, he could barely move, and the snow was so disorientating he feared he might be lost. Indeed, Horace Slughorn began to panic.  _I could be stuck out here forever,_  he thought, teeth chattering and clothes sodden,  _I'll collapse and disappear beneath the snow, and they'll only find me years later, when someone notices a flash of purple velvet peeking out from under a spring bulb..._  The thought was horrifying; all that life wasted! The parties to attend, the students to nurture - he was new to it, but this teaching wheeze looked full of good introductions - all the delicious candied pineapple and elf-made wine to eat and drink - what if it all went on without him?  
  
His mustachioed lips starting to tremble ate the pathos of the whole thing, and the evening's tipple relinquishing the very last of its warmth, Horace's heart jumped in delight when he saw a building up ahead with its lights still on. He re-steeled himself and pushed on, gritty snow hurting everywhere as it pounded. Perhaps it would be some charming family, keeping their doors open for wayfarers in need? Nicely-spoken parents, well-dressed children playing politely around the hearth; that sort of thing -  _proper_  people, no less. Horace could almost feel the cashmere blanket they would have ready for him, and taste the petits fours they had saved after dinner, just in case...  
  
It therefore came as quite a shock when, drawing nearer, it transpired that the light emanated from the Hog's Head public house.  _Oh golly,_  breathed Horace. Dirty, nasty place, it was. The proprietor was no better; how that crude man could be Albus' brother, Horace would never understand.  
  
But it was so  _very_  cold, and the risk of never making it out of the snow seemed to press more strongly then ever. It was therefore perhaps against his better judgement that Horace found himself reaching up to the rusty old door knocker and composing his expression into one he sincerely hoped looked like a good cause - even to a ruffian.  
  
There came a very long pause. The wind whistled alarmingly about the creaky pub sign, but there was no sound from within. Perhaps the lights had been left on by mistake? Or perhaps Aberforth - even tipsier than Horace was, himself - had fallen asleep behind the bar at last orders, insensible as ale dripped slowly onto his forehead from a nearby tap. The image was revolting... and oddly compelling. Indeed, Horace became so lost in contemplation of it that he bodily jumped when the door was yanked open before him.  
  
"Whaddye want?" Aberforth's tone was gruff, bordering on the aggressive.  
  
"I'm so terribly sorry to bother you," started Horace, unconsciously patting down his sandy hair, as if being introduced to the Minister, "I was wondering if I might possibly ask... That is, if you could countenance being so kind as to-"  
  
"Well, if you ain't got anything useful to say..." The door started to close.  
  
"-No! I mean, please. I'd very ever so grateful if-"  
  
"-Oh stop jabbering and come in, will you?" Aberforth stepped aside and waved his hand with impatience, "You'll catch your death out there, y'stupid bastard. - Not to mention the affect it's having on me 'eating charm. Can't be doin' with standing in doorways, now can I?"  
  
"Oh no. That is,  _yes!_  I mean... thank you." Gathering his somewhat-frozen wits, Horace made a dash for the open door as if it were the gateway to El Dorado.  
  
Aberforth slammed the elements out. "Now, what the Merlin are y'doin' at my door in the middle of the night? Ain't got a home to go to?"  
  
"-Well, yes, but..."  
  
"'Ere." Aberforth regarded him with narrowed eyes, making some sort of connection, "You're the new teacher at 'ogwarts, ain't you?"  
  
"Well, I've actually been there for two years, now."  
  
He shrugged. "New enough. No wonder you didn't just apparate then. - And that's without the drink. Ha!"  
  
Suddenly feeling very small in his dripping robes, Horace decided he had to take control.  _Really_ , he thought,  _Grubby pub owners shouldn't go around speaking to_ me _like that._ I _am a_ Slughorn</i>. "Thank you, my good man. Very decent of you, I'm sure. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'd very much like to perform a drying charm on these clothes, so if there is somewhere private I could...?" He cast around, assuming his intention was clear.  
  
"The fire's over there, innit?" Aberforth gestured to the far end of the room, toward a feeble flicker in a grate.  
  
"Well yes, but-"  
  
"-Take it or leave it. All me rooms're full with payin' guests."  
  
At that, Horace saw a ray of hope. "Oh, I could pay! Handsomely. No problem, my good man, you just name your price, and-"  
  
"-I said they were  _full_ , didn't I? Blimey, clean yer ears out. I'm sure you ain't got nothin' I ain't seen before."  
  
Horace blinked. He certainly was  _not_  accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner, and felt sure that a great surge of indignation should be building up in him at any moment. Except it wasn't. No; maybe it was the cold, or maybe it was the wine, but instead of offense, he was struck dumb by a tumult of... fascination? His breath had caught at the harsh words, and he felt pinned to the spot; bubbly inside.  
  
Horace nodded, and tore himself away to pad across to the hearth, as meek as a lamb. He shed his sodden robes - a relief as the plush velvet was achingly heavy when waterlogged - and tried not to feel self-conscious in his under-robes, the thin silk pasted to his ample form with damp. He also tried not to feel Aberforth's gaze. Unreadable, it was; steady, unblinking, possibly dangerous. The eyes of the lower orders were like that, Horace thought. A chap couldn't understand them; like a wild animal, they might stare and stare, and there could be anything back there - intelligence, terror, cold calculation - one could never know. He shuddered, and secretly knew it was not just with cold.  
  
Setting his mind back to task, Horace cast the strongest drying charms he could, and then resignedly set his robes to levitate above the fireplace; with that much snow, it would take at least an hour before they were wearable again.  
  
"Drink." The word was barked from behind the bar.  
  
"Thank you, but I've already had-"  
  
"-Bollocks. If you're gonna wake me up at the arse-end of the night, y'could at least 'ave the decency to join me in a stiff-un."  
  
Horace gulped, wondering why on earth he should be hearing a double-entendre. "Yes, well. Thank you." He made his way to the bar and took the proferred grubby glass, trying not to examine the dirt under Aberforth's fingernails... certainly not imagining how it would feel if they were to score down the soft skin of his back...  
  
"Sit down, then." Aberforth nodded at one of the bar stools. "And now you can tell me what a fancy-pants like you is doin' teaching those little monsters round 'ere..."  
  
  


*****

  
  
"...And then I said, 'But honestly, good sir. I only have two knuts, twelve slices of Lancashire cheese, and a narwhal horn!'"  
  
"Ha! Har-har-har!" Aberforth's laughter had all the mellifluousness of the scrape of rusty hinges, but there was something quite wonderful about hearing it, nonetheless. Perhaps because a creaky gate implies exclusivity: not many people have trodden that ground before. - Or perhaps because its harshness spoke of strength and thrust and that sort of directness that made Horace tingle all over, so alien as it was to the mores of polite society. From the far side of his fifth firewhisky, Horace found it difficult to tell.  
  
They had migrated to one of the little tables in the main part of the bar; a large bottle, a glass each and enough stories to keep tongues wagging for hours. Who would have guessed that an uncultured publican would have so many opinions? - And that not all of them were stupid, either? Indeed, through the alcoholic fog, Horace had to admit that man had turned out to be pretty good company.   
  
 _Not entirely unattractive, too_. He tried to silence the treacherous part of his brain yet again. Really, it wouldn't do; the very  _thought_  of relations with such a common specimen was entirely below the salt. How could he even...? Yes,  _terrible_  it was; quite terrible. Entirely beyond belief.   
  
\- Yet perhaps that was what made it so very compelling. Through the candlelight and the haze, Horace could see very little other than the calloused strength of Aberforth's hands gripping his glass just-so, tight and commanding; the arch curve of his brow and those perfect lips that hid yellowing teeth, dangerously sharp, and grinding in thought. And below... oh, below! The neck of his robe gaped, showing muscles and sinews galore, his waist was trim and his legs long and honed with hard work; grunting and sweating and... Horace found himself all a-quiver, pulsing hard beneath the table.  
  
Indeed, in his reverie, it took him a moment to realize that the conversation had paused, and that Aberforth was staring at him, a smirk on his lips. "Well, are we gonna get on with it, then?"  
  
Mouth suddenly dry, Horace flushed. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure I know what you-."  
  
"-Oh come on. Don't play all 'igh and mighty with me, now. I've seen the way you've been lookin', all night. Couldn't take yer bloody eyes off me, could you? Bet you're as hard as ice down there." - And to prove his point, one of those strong hands darted away from its trusty position on the firewhisky and thrust into Horace's lap. "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about...." He wrapped his fingers about Horace's erection, and palmed it roughly, the thin silk leaving absolutely nothing to modesty.  
  
"Oh gods..." Horace couldn't think or move. Simply, his eyes slid closed and the world seemed to narrow to nothing but the man hovering over him, and the almost-painful heat and tightness in his cock as the fabric slid up and down it, fast and unrelenting. Aberforth came closer then, and Horace felt hot breath on his cheek, and the scratch of pointed teeth against his neck. He let out a cry, nearly spending himself at that moment, the pleasure-pain of it soaring in his blood...  
  
-But it was not be. Aberforth stepped back abruptly, and tugged at Horace's shoulder. "Up with you, then, Princess. I want me fun too, y'know - And you're quite the one, ain't you? I do like me a bit o' posh."  
  
He flicked his wand in Horace's direction - almost too casual to notice, but the aim spot-on, despite the drink - and then Horace's robes and socks slithered off to the floor, a little pool of silk about his ankles.  
  
"Oooh, well, look at you!" Aberforth's smile was lecherous in the extreme, raking over Horace's curves with undisguised hunger. "I bet you ain't done a work day's work in yer life." He clapped his palms down on either side of Horace's belly, leaving prints on the smooth, pink skin. "De-bloody-licious. Now..." He circled, breathing softly into Horace's ear, "Bend over, your 'ighness..."  
  
Gulping, mind a cloud of panic and lust and excitement, Horace complied. He could feel the grit and detritus below his bare feet, and the sticky muck of age-old ale on the table under his chest and hands - its side digging in to the softness of his stomach as if it might leave splinters. It was disgustingly, superlatively erotic.  
  
Aberforth seized his hips from behind, and Horace could feel no-doubt-filthy fingernails sink into the flesh of his buttocks. He couldn't help but groan.  
  
"Oh, like that, do you, me little royal? I'll show you some more where that came from." He nudged legs apart with a thigh, and then one of those long, rough fingers traced along the cleft of Horace's arse.  
  
Horace jumped, achingly hard and both desperate to turn around and to stay exactly where he was: splayed in the dirt and begging for more. He felt himself quiver, maybe even whimper.  
  
Aberforth chuckled at that. "Oh yes, ain't you precious?"   
  
Then, there seemed to be oil, and those fascinating fingers nearer, closer -  _oh Merlin_  - inside him... probing and stretching and setting off fireworks in their wake. "Yes, please... oh, more..." The words were hardly recognizable as his, but they seemed to be spilling from his mouth all the same. Horace's eyes were closed, buried in his arms - just as he so dearly wished for Aberforth to bury deeply within him; to be taken and filled and defiled by this shard-of-glass of a man.  
  
Luckily, he did not have to wait long. A large, blunt cock pressed at his entrance, and pushed inside with minimum of warning. Aberforth hissed his approval, then set up a punishing rhythm, battering Horace's prostate with every delicious jerk and thrust.   
  
"Tight little cunt, aren't you, now?" he bit out... and something about those filthy words in his ear were the very last thing to push Horace over the edge, gasping and crying out and spilling copiously against the table.  
  
"Ah, oh Merlin, oh..."  
  
"Yesss, that's it..." - And very soon, Horace felt Aberforth shove home one last time, then spend deeply within him, fingers locked in to the flesh of his waist such that they would surely leave marks. In the fog around him, Horace found himself hoping they would.  
  
Slowly, the men separated and caught their breath. As the world crystallized around him, Horace avoided eye-contact, really not sure what he should say or do next. Not the usual sort of encounter, after all; he could hardly say  _Toodle-pip,_  and  _Charmed, old sport; see you next time at the Club_ , now could he?  
  
It was fortunate then, that Aberforth once again took the lead. He smiled - actually quite warmly. "Good-o. Well, I guess you'd like a bit o' kip then, eh? I'll show you somewhere to sleep?"  
  
Horace frowned. "But you said the rooms were full, and-"  
  
"-Yeah, they are. But there's plenty of room with the goats."  
  
"With the  _goats_?!"  
  
"Ha! Har-har-har!" That laugh again; full of mirth, and actually quite beautiful. "I was only pullin' yer leg, stupid. Of course I've got a room free. But I wasn't gonna go tellin' you, that, when you walked in 'ere all dripping wet and gorgeous, now, was I?"  
  
"Sorry, you...what...?" It all took a moment to register. Indeed, the scholarly part of Horace's brain protested that he had never been less eloquent than he had this night, and sought to remedy it forthwith. Or in the morning, at least. Slowly, he returned the grin. "Well, thank you."  
  
\- And a few minutes later, when Horace was snuggled beneath a quilt that was perfectly clean and surprisingly cozy, the whirl of icy snow now separated off by leaded-lights and a decent charm, he reflected that the Hog's Head wasn't so very bad, after all. In fact, he might now have reason to become a regular.


End file.
